Breathing
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: As the events seen in "Revenge of the Sith" unfold, Obi-Wan Kenobi recalls his brief romance with Duchess Satine Kryze.


In loving memory of my mom, "Jodi Sue"

1961-2012

Breathing—it's harder than you might think, really. I mean, I know you're body's supposed to do that voluntarily or whatever, but somehow I think that nifty physiological trick passed me by. It's like I actually have to _command_ my lungs to expand, to bring in fresh oxygen and wash it into my bloodstream. Like my mind's meant to oversee everything biology-related in me, so I don't have to deal with what's going on the real world.

This is the conversation I've been dreading for a long time, you see. Parts of me wanted to believe that what I been observing wasn't true- couldn't be, not in the slightest. And I really don't wish to now, either. But what choice do I have? She's the closest being in the galaxy to the man I need to catch, the one woman who might have some inkling as to where the monster known as Anakin Skywalker has gone.

Well, not quite. He's had change of names, it turns out to, a perfect match for his sudden plunge to the dark. If you walked up to him today—which I'd give a karking arm and leg to say I could do—he'd introduce himself as something like _Darth Vader_.

The more I think about it, the monster never _was_ Anakin, anyways.

Oh, blast. She's looking at me. With those huge, umber eyes that used to be so soft, so downy you thought they'd crumble if stared into them too long.

"You're alive," she says, studying me without a trace of emotion hinting her full face.

_Obviously,_ I want to reply, but opt against it. "And you're…" For the first time since entering her veranda apartment, I take note of her physical condition. There's a belly showing, a huge, domed thing that juts underneath her velvety robes, and I groan inwardly. There's no rationalizing, no other explanation for this. Nothing.

She's definitely reading my mind right now, because a thin hand goes to her stomach, strokes it. "I was hoping to keep it a secret for as long as possible, Master Jedi. Politics and unexplained pregnancies don't exactly mix." Her eyes meet mine, and for a heartbeat her gaze isn't so much desperate is it is pained. "I can trust you to keep this under wraps?"

It takes everything in me to keep my brow from shooting to the roof. She's expecting to keep _this_ a secret? When she's not just showing, but very, _very _pregnant? Ha, ha, Padme. I'm sure _no one's_ noticed, especially not any of those carnivorous journalists always hovering about the Senate.

Gaze frozen on hers, I nod stiffly. "Of course. And congratulations, by the way." _I think._

Wary, she studies the starfighter resting precariously outside her window. "This is official business, isn't it?"

Another nod. "I need to know where Anakin is, Padme."

"Anakin?" She pauses as if to mull that over, then crosses the room and begin busying herself with a bundle of laundry. "Why?"

Rather than follow her, I stay where I am, staring out at the chaos of the Coruscanti skyline. Funny, how that cacophony seems so normal. So mundane. "Just tell me where he is, Padme."

"You didn't answer my question."

I risk a glance over my shoulder. "I know."

"Well." Apparently unsatisfied with her little diversion, Padme paces idly by. "It just so turns out that I _don't_ know where Anakin is, Master Kenobi, because he doesn't _tell me_ where he's going to be twenty-four seven. I'm his friend, you know; he's not obligated to tell me anything."

I go rigid. This time, I'm not playing games. This time, I add a little durasteel to my voice, just to drive my point home. "I'm not stupid." When she doesn't react, I sigh. Relax my tone. And try again. "When was the last time you him?"

"Yesterday," she replies making a bee-line for her previously abandoned laundry.

"Did he mention where he might be headed afterwards?"

"No," she responds back, either not noticing or not caring that her voice is cracking.

"Not anything? He didn't look like he was heading off-world to you?"

She turns her gaze in my direction without meeting my eyes. "To me, no. You don't think he would've stayed on Coruscant?"

This warrants a long, pointed stare from me. "If he'd stayed on- world, Padme, there's only one place he would be staying."

Something flickers briefly in her eyes. She knows what I mean, and she knows that I know. It's just that she won't readily admit it. "Even if that were true, I'd doubt you'd understand."

13 years earlier

There're a lot of different responses trying work their way to my tongue, presently. Which isn't good. My master's instructions were clear, after all: no matter how you feel about politics, about Mandos, or—stars forbid—her, I'm supposed remain calm, self-contained. Or whatever else you'd like to call an idiot without a karking spine.

Or maybe, all the other, hopping-mad beings in the galaxy are the spineless ones. Getting angry is easy, you know. _Childishly_ easy. But holding your tongue, extinguishing all its myriad flames before they catch fire, just _isn't_.

I take a deep, cleansing breath, and try to forget I'm here for a few blessed moments. Then I'm back, unease flaring in my brain like a fleet of invisible klaxons. The girl—actually, she's a woman, I think—is striding toward me, seemingly floating along the over-glossed floor with a grace that shouldn't belong to mortals. Her features, sad and wan and delicately beautiful, are briefly fractured by a thin smile as she offers a hand.

The Mando's arrived.

"Since when are civil wars _any_ one's business—besides the parties involved, of course?"

Hand hovering over his nap-sack and a pile of the few, meager belongings we Jedi are allowed, Qui-Gon sighs. "I've been asking that same question for some time, Padawan. And I can't say I've come up with any good answer."

"Aside from what we already know."

Eying me with those keen, hazel eyes, Qui-Gon frowns a little. Well, not really _Qui-Gon_, I guess. More like _master_. And I'm more like padawan—an apprentice—the guy who's fortunate enough to merely have to _ask_ endless questions, not _answer_ them. "And that would be…?"

Without a missing a beat, I rattle off all I can recall from the Council summoning. "After four-hundred years of peace between them, the ruling Clans of the planet Mandalore have initiated a civil war, which is costing their people greatly in resources and lives. The leader of one of these Clans, the distinguished Clan Kryze, doesn't believe this sort of conflict is sustainable; in fact, he doesn't wish it to continue at all. In light of this, he's sent his eldest daughter, Satine Kryze, to Coruscant, where she has been learning the art of diplomacy in a Political Sciences University. It was her father's dying wish—and the hope of all those who stand to put a stop to the violence—that she be returned to her home planet, that she might prove a stable leader for her war-torn world."

Qui-Gon smiles with his eyes. "Impressive."

Flushed a little, I do my best to dip my head without going beet-red. "Thank you, master. I think."

"You think?" The smile migrates down to his mouth, where it blossoms into a full-blown grin. "Well, since you're so _obviously _sure of yourself, please explain to me why we've been assigned to Satine Kryze's protection detail. Furthermore, why for a _year_?"

Straightening, I spurt out another round of details, jargons. I'm good at this, after all. It's always been my strength, my tiny, almost imperceptive gift to this master-apprentice partnership, to hang back and mull over the _what's_ while my mentor harries himself with _how's_.

"So," Qui-Gon says after I've finished, "is that it? Are assassins are only problems, padawan? Do you think they can stand between her and peace?"

After a chewing on that for a spell, I shake my head. "No, Master. People tend to stay rooted to their own ways, and that can transform enemies into their greatest hope."

As I take the woman's ghostly white hand, I'm finding that I instantly dislike her. You know that feeling, right? When you've only locked eyes with the other person for a nanosecond, when you've only seen one fake smile or dainty handshake, you get this…reading. A kind of unwritten, tell-all biography, I guess, scrolling in your mind as if the universe itself were writing it there.

The favorite child, probably the object of unspeakable envy among her siblings—if she has any. Pretty, and well aware of it. Intelligent, but she fails to apply it to any subject outside politics. She won't, probably; judging by the distinctive, angular cuts her lapel's boasting, she's fiercely loyal to her homeworld, would do anything and everything to give it the best possible future. Not a traditionalist, though—unlike her roughened Mandolorian brethren, she's garbed in a severe-yet-elegant gown instead of battle-scored armor—and she's not exactly the person _I_ would've chosen to represent my entire civilization.

All in all, she's starting out like every other politician who's sullied history with their existence.

"Padawan Kenobi." She inclines her head, a movement so rehearsed, so _I'm-just-another-cordial-politician_ that it makes me sick.

"Ah…" Despite myself, I decide to allow a tiny smile. "I'm truly sorry for this, but…your title? I'm not sure 'Mistress Mandolore' would quite be appropriate."

Speaking of appropriate...yeah, we've been holding hands for quite some time now. I didn't realize it, honestly; I'd been so caught up in my disdain for her that I left my fingers entwined with hers. Not good. And pretty awkward, our hands sliding away from each other a few seconds too slow, returning to our sides as we avert our gaze to the floor.

Finally—mercifully—she breaks the silence. "'Satine' would suit me fine, actually…"

"Mmm…yes. Suits you well, Satine."

A precursor to a smile hints her exquisitely thin mouth. "Kenobi isn't all that bad of a title, either."

The way she says _Kenobi_, half whispering it in that mellifluous voice of hers, has me flushed. She should really consider acting. Not that embellished crap you see on the holonet, mind you; that'd be beneath her, especially considering her delicate, almost twiggy figure. Everything about her would just translate so well on a live stage, would be so compelling that you'd dump the 'Net and all their curvaceous, sultry "actresses".

And then again, maybe she's _somewhat_ attractive.

Abandoning reason, protocol, and everything descent in the world, I offer an arm to her with a small flourish. "Then it's just as well I'm your escort, hmm? Master Jinn doesn't bear come off the tongue quite as easily, in my opinion."

Another shadow-smile. "In your opinion."

"I have a few, you know."

"Duly noted."

Present Day

Alright, so maybe it didn't go _quite_ like that. I mean, the part about me instantly disliking her, that's real. It happened. Otherwise…is it asking too much to just forget you even read that? With Satine, it's often hard to sort out my feelings,_ or_ assign them to the proper time period, and it gets so blasted confusing. It wasn't until a couple of months into this affair (okay, that was an _extremely_ poor choice of words) that I finally developed anything more than a grudging respect for Satine.

Like the same respect I hold for Padme, flushed and winded and wild-eyed as she reluctantly meets my gaze. "_Don't._"

It's almost bringing me to tears, hearing that, because I know exactly what she means.

13 years earlier

When I was about twelve, I remember getting a lot of agonizing lectures from some of the instructors at the temple. Like, _really_ embarrassing ones. Stuff regarding puberty, and girls, and where babies ultimately hail from. Not like we already didn't know any of that, though; thanks to our extensive biology and chemistry studies, we were pretty well acquainted with "the changes" by then, and all of those endless talks were only making things more uncomfortable.

The only other subject they included in these unwanted monologues was something akin to lighting a long, long fuse. On one hand, they were telling us how much we were changing, how our hearts would skip beats whenever a girl happened into a room, but on the other, it was all warnings. Endless rules. "I know it'd feel nice to live with one of those pretty girls for the rest of your life," they'd say, "and bet that's what it'd be: nice. It's just that you can't do that. It's not allowed, thanks to the religious musing of some long-dead Jedi I won't bother to recall the name of. And you're expected to _like_ that."

Well, they didn't _exactly_ put it that way. Not quite. But you know what? That's exactly what my young, hungry ears heard: you can never have what you want most. Ever.

And I never knew I'd wanted anything more than Satine Kryze until that breezy—and ultimately fateful- summer night.

Balanced as gravity itself, I slink along a metal rafter, mindful to keep my eyes trained fully ahead. I throw in a somersault or two, careful not to over-rotate, under-rotate, or just about anything else that could send me flying. Wary of the fountain beneath, which I can hear gurgling placidly below. And I'm cautious…of about everything.

Four months have passed since I was first assigned this mission, so you can say that having my wits about me has become an invaluable trait. More than that, even. It's like a business, an order of operations I've honed down to a complete, infallible science, and it's a kind that doesn't allow any breaks. No slack-offs.

Unless you want a dead woman on your hands, that is.

Sweating through a long, deep stretch, I try to work out just how I'd react to that. It's possible, after all. For every seven assassination attempts—and there's been eight—one of them has to reap the prize. Hit the mark. Make the kill—no pun intended. Every day I've been around Satine Kryze, every passing moment I watch her attempt to dissuade the violence tearing at her world, I have to remind myself not to get attached, not to develop the same warm familiarity she shares with Qui-Gon.

It's not that I can't forge relationships, mind you. I have plenty of those, not counting the oddballs Qui-Gon's acquainted me with. It's that I'm just being _smart._ Careful not blur the lines of duty and friendship, because I full well that I may be the one who lets her die.

I'd rather lose a job than a friend.

That's why I've never really had a decent conversation with the woman. Sure, I'll bicker with her when things are going slow. And yeah, I introduced myself like a proper gentleman when we first met. But besides those instances, we never talk; Qui-Gon's the one who has anything meaningful with her, chats with her at dinner and laughs at the weak attempts at humor she tries to salvage from her dismal universe.

It's none too dismal at the moment, though. You might venture to say that things are looking up; stationed on the nearby world of Raxus, we're surrounded by elegance, beauty, and basically everything else that Mandalore lacks. We're even allowed to stay in one the many ornate, scintillating pent houses, almost joining us at the hip with the planet's russet sunsets.

Pulling in a breath of thin air, I close my eyes. Good thing I've never ventured too close to the edge. Good thing I'm _careful._

And I swear that's _exactly_ when I see her.

All the lectures come rushing back to me, a deafening roar in my ears. They said girls could get your heart pounding, huh? Well, that must've been an understatement, then, because I soon as my eyes catch sight of her lithe form strolling below, I lose all control of…everything. My legs go stringy, my vision is flecked with black globs, and I can barely feel the rafter beneath me.

Because it's _not there._ _I'm_ not there. No, sir. I'm plunging straight down, barely recalling that that stupid fountain's rushing to greet me till I'm in it. Till I'm thrashing around in it, gripped by its cold, icy fingers.

Once I've regained my bearings, I'm standing, water streaming off me like a widow's tears. Hair plastered to my head. Clothes clinging to me in every place imaginable, making me want to melt right here and now. It's bad enough that Satine's here watching, but it's not until I start watching her that I wish my tunic hadn't fallen open, exposing my chest to the elements and eyes alike.

I'm not really the _noticing_ type of guy. All those lectures at the temple—you could say they scare it out of me. Except they never explained what'd it be like when there was _a lot_ to notice, and the nightgown Satine's dressed in isn't exactly something you'd wear in public. I can picture fathers murdering any hapless man who so much as thought of seeing his daughter in this.

She must've realized that, too, because as soon as I feel myself blushing, so is she. I'm soaked as a womp-rat, my clothes nearly showing to my skin; she's garbed in a sheer, black thing, and it's nearly short enough to make a good shirt. At least I can tug my tunic closed, though, can pluck my robes away from skin so it's not _quite_ as uncomfortable. Anything else, and I'd probably be in the predicament of poor Satine, slim hands raised to mask whatever she can.

Alarmed, I slap a hand over my eyes. "Sorry!"

"Um, it's…fine," she answers, sounding anything but truthful. "I'm, uh, sorry too."

So she _did_ noticed my little wardrobe situation. "You want something too…you know, _cover-up."_

I didn't think it was impossible, but Satine clears her throat loud enough it nearly drowns out my thundering heart. "Do _you_?"

And then we're laughing, deep, belly-wrenching sounds that leave us breathless. It's ridiculous, this whole thing. A Jedi and a warlord's daughter, flustered over modesty when they could be worrying about assassins. I mean, really: when would either of us try something we shouldn't? I'm too much of gentlemen; she's too concerned about political image to even glance at someone of the opposite sex.

Lowering her hands to wipe at her eyes—must've laughed so hard she cried, I guess—she smiles warmly at me. "Since it's not like we're not already in a, ah, _compromising_ situation, I was wondering…"

My heart plunges to my throat. "Yes…?"

"Well…" Her eyes wander past my shoulder, and I can swear for the time I've known her they're twinkling. "You like water?"

I gesture glumly to my soaked clothes. "Obviously."

"Then—race you!"

And just like that, we're plopping into the fountain, clothes and all.

"Satine?"

At the sound of my voice, Satine comes tip-toeing out of her room, her damp hair hanging around her shoulders like a dark blond river. Don't worry: we split up to change, each of us heading to our chambers when we finally pulled ourselves away from the fountain. No funny business here. We're both fully clothed when she reaches me, me in fresh Jedi apparel, her in a full length robe closed to the neck.

I have to grin at that. "You're going to get hot wearing a robe."

"And you," she retorts, giving me an once-over with smiling eyes, "are making me feel like I'm practically naked."

There it was, the "n" word. "I like to overdress. There's nothing wrong with that, is there?"

A sad smile. "Not _that _kind of naked."

"Oh. Right." Embarrassed at my own set of mildly inappropriate quips, I pretend to make sure Qui-Gon's not on one of his late night strolls. "You might be so kind as to elaborate…"

"I mean that you make me feel…vulnerable."

Instantly, my mind goes back to her feeble attempts at disguising her cleavage with her hands. "Sorry. _Sorry._"

"It's—"she nails me with a look, a venomous, cauterizing glare"—blast it, Obi-Wan. It's not _that_. You men, always sticking your mind in the gutter. I _swear_, you can't tell what a woman's feeling if she bludgeoned you with it."

Every oxygen molecule in the universe catches in my throat. I'm not sure that I can ask her that. I don't think I even _want_ too. Still, I'm myself asking anyway, not sure it's that desperate look in her eyes that's prompting me or a picture of having her claimed by assassin before I ever knew what she was feeling.

"I think," she breathes, inching close, "that I've loved you since day one."

Present Day

Suddenly, I'm feeling weary. Worn-out. Old. I don't want to press her, don't want to hit too many nerves when she's in this condition, but I don't have much of a choice. It's either leave her be, or let her child live in a galaxy ruled by a monster.

"Padme," I say, gently taking her by the shoulders, "Anakin has turned to the dark side."

Two years earlier

"You know I meant every word of that, Satine."

Soft blue eyes focused on the Coruscanti skyline, Satine doesn't look at me. I doubt she could. There was so much hurt, so many deep, deep wounds that we reopened on the _Coronet_, and they're still oozing. Not even the salve of our newly defined friendship could stop it; besides, I don't think we'd want it that way. Things between us were always destined to have a twang to it, an underlying hurt that makes even the sweetest moments as bitter as death.

Despite any of that, though-or maybe _because_ of it-I go on. "And I've been thinking: what if _had_ stayed? What if I'd left the Order and ran away with you, and we'd gotten married and had kids? What if you'd stepped down as Duchess, had done the whole mother thing you were always dreaming of? What if I had got to be a father, brought home the credits, rough-housed with the kids? What would they be like?"

Mouth pinching into a sickly pink line, Satine doesn't respond. Not at first, though. It doesn't take her but a minute of agonizing quiet to finally work up the nerve to face me, her velvety hand reaching to touch my face. Traces fingers at the corners of my eyes, as she stealing herself to catch my tears.

"They'd be ashamed of us, Obi. Children aren't fond of miserable souls."

10 years earlier

I barely sleep a wink that night, but I'm finding that I almost don't need it. When the sun rolls around, bathing me in watery, pink light, I feel…different. Something's coursing through my veins, something strong, vibrant, _alive_. New. None of the wears of my near-sleepless night accompany me as I dress, amble down the hall to Satine's room, and knock.

At first, I wonder if I've just made a huge mistake. I mean, what if she doesn't _want_ what she thought she did? This is hardly a life for anyone, sneaking around, always having to glance over your shoulder. Heart-gnawing itself for one of those brief, forbidden moments. But when her door creaks open, revealing a blond head and a pair of crystalline eyes, the pulse drumming in my temples tells me otherwise.

It tells me this is _worth it_.

As time goes on, however, I'm not so sure. Every time I see her, touch her, see her smile…I feel haunted. The good moments no longer exist, not really. Sure, we might spend some time alone, silent as the stars as we drink in the sweetness of each other's presence. And there might be some bright pinpricks in our horizon, beaming moments where we wonder what the future might hold for us, but as soon as I realize that I'm going to have to abandon this all one day, I feel every ounce of joy stolen. Sucked dry by the glutton of regret.

Months waft away, till I'm waking up and remembering I've been here for a year. I've been through a lot rough patches, a legion of valleys I'd rather not see again. I've seen things, some good, some unspeakably bad. Learned things about myself, about life. And as I'm standing here, up to my knees in the bleached ruins of Mandalore, wind tugging at my cloak, I recall one brutal lesson this journey's beat into me.

Sometimes, it's best just to let things go.

Mandalore could've been pretty. Beautiful , even. She could've been an emerald gem, contrasting against her garnet moon, Concordia, like an artfully strung necklace. She could've had trees, rivers, and transparent, sapphire oceans. She could've had mauve, burning sunsets, kind of like those ones on Raxus. Instead, she's a barren world now, white ashes washing over what should've been rolling farmland, its soil so depleted and damaged that everyone's been forced to relocate to temporary "bubble" cities Satine thought to construct during the war.

Funny, how she'd had the mind to do that. Most leaders shy away from worst case scenarios. Rather than prepare for them, they cringe, screw their eyes shut, and pretend as if doing nothing about will prevent the inevitable. It's what _I'd_ do, if it were up to me. So Satine's decision…I'm sure what was going on there. Maybe she'd somehow foreseen the monstrosities the Clan Wars would bring about, had just _known_ that her world would come limping from the fight. Or perhaps she'd simply come to realize what we'd feared from the start.

A half-living world.

At least they've gone _some_ hope to clean to. After all, Satine's proven herself to be a very capable, level-headed leader, one who's already proven the gift of foresight. She expected Mandalore to come out of this, what with building those contained, bubble cities, and that's exactly what they did: survive. And perhaps they'll overcome, as well, but only time will be the judge of that. Just wait till the Republic clears out and you're left standing on your own mangled feet, Mandalore.

Staring out across the planet's wasted ground, I grab Satine's hand and squeeze it. "You think you can do it?"

Squeezing back, she gives me a grim smile. I know what she wants to ask. I know what _I_ want to ask, but the words just won't form on my lips. They _refuse_ to. So, instead, I'm getting down to what I've dreaded telling her since that night at the fountain.

"I'm leaving," I breath, pressing my mouth to her delicate ear. "Tomorrow."

11 years later

"Mandalore's really changed," I remark, trying to keep my booted feet in step with Satine's elegant legs. Then I pause, staring down at where we've linked arms. Is it really that easy? Just leave, waltz back in, and be as comfortable with one another as the day we parted? Granted, there's no kissing, no lips touching in a wet, velvety embrace—but I can't say that I don't want to. She _is_ prettier, after all, as if she's a fine, age wine that only grows sweeter with time.

She stops, too, meets my eyes. "So have you."

"Now, that's hardly fair, Satine." I run my other hand over my beard, grown only a couple of years after we parted. "It's not _that_ bad, is it?"

One of her old, glistening smiles makes an appearance. "I'm not entirely certain. You always had a nice, boyish face."

Cupping a hand under her chin, I make sure she can see the seriousness in my gaze. "And you've always had the most _gorgeous_ eyes of any woman in the galaxy. And you have the softest skin of any of them. And whenever I think of your hair, I'm wondering if I'm not thinking about the stars themselves."

"You have nice eyes yourself, Obi. But there's something about you I've always admired, always loved since…well, that first day we met."

My hand refuses to budge from her skin. "What?"

Fingers curling about my wrist, she plucks my hand away, places it on her chest. Probably not the wisest decision, if you ask me: I bet it looks pretty bad to some of the bystanders, and I'm wondering if some of her bodyguards aren't about plunge an electroprod into the base of my skull. Then I feel a tiny rhythm, a constant, unseen dance, and I understand. Feel my hand tingle with word of the silent song, hidden beneath the softness of her breast.

_Lud-dup. Lub-dup. Lub-dup._

"Funny," I say, drawing my hand back to my side, "because that's the same part I always loved most about you, too."

Present Day

"No," Padme whispers, wrenching herself away. "I don't believe that. I _can't_."

13 years earlier

As soon the word _tomorrow_ leaves my tongue, Satine goes rigid against me. She tries to pull away, skin hotter than Mustafar's core, but I won't let her. I can't. Not when all we have left is another sunset and sunrise, painting a sky I don't want to leave.

When she finally faces me, her eyes are puffy, and her nose is running like a hunter in hot pursuit. Tears streak her face, giving her this pallid, ashen look that isn't hers. _Shouldn't_ be, anyways—but I suppose I'm to blame for that. I wrap her in my arms as best I can, drawing her close enough to feel her tears wet the front of my cloak, hoping it'll be enough to bring some color back to her.

It isn't.

"Stop," she says suddenly, pushing me back. Her gaze is hard, frigid as the winds cutting through my clothes. "Just _stop_, Obi-Wan. Don't make this any harder than it needs to be."

On an impulse, I catch her by the sleeve. That stops her for second, but as soon as she can, she's fighting to wrench herself from my grasp. And, reluctantly, I let her; there isn't a way in the universe I could _make_ her love me back, even if I abandoned my morals and made love to her right here, right now. She _wants_ to run, and I have to acknowledge that. Even as much as that hurts me.

But there's still a way, I realize. A crazy way. It'll probably do more harm than good, mind you, will have her in hysterics or something worse—but I have to try. That's what they say love's all about, right? Taking risks, making sacrifices. Doing astronomically stupid things to prove you care.

So instead of following her, I head back to her dorm. Gesturing, I use the force to unscramble the lock on the door, its glowing tumblers moving easily in the direction I want them to. Then I'm easing over the threshold without a cinch—funny how I'd expected it to be booby-trapped—carefully resetting the lock before I plop myself down on her bed, waiting.

And waiting.

And realizing that this _really_ might not be a good idea.

Well, that's too bad, mister. Because Satine…she's already in the room as I'm working up the courage to leave, heat rushing from head to toe as I meet her gaze. She's been in the room the entire time, I guess; garbed only in a towel, she's obviously just taken a shower, or was planning on it. Probably the latter. Her hair's not wet, and she has an arm full of fresh clothes held to her chest, barring my view of whatever the towel failed to cover.

Instead of screaming, Satine gives me a tearful glance. "Turn around."

I do, and I feel myself blush as I hear her slipping into her clothes. "Satine...maybe I should go…"

"Don't." Fully clothed, she plops herself beside me on the bed, sobbing. "I need to know…I need you to say—"

"I know." Problem is, I don't know how. I never did. All I can do is hold her close, pulling my chin over the top of her silken head, massaging her shoulders whenever a sobs takes her and whisper, "_you_ know."

"Say it," she commands through the tears.

And I do. I say it over, and over, and over—until even _I'm_ tired of hearing it. Until all I have left is to lift her mouth to mine, a moist, velvet symphony only the two of us have the words to.

"If I can, Satine," I whisper against her cheek, "I'll come back to see you."

11 years later

It's a sad irony, really, that history never forgets. Men may spend their entire existence attempting to wash away a specific sin, to bury their regret, but it never does. Rather, it observes silently from the shadows, recording every word, waiting till it can bring them back to haunt you.

It's been eleven long years since I've seen Satine, and fate has been nasty enough to bring us together. More like _smack_ us together, actually. If it hadn't been for this dreadful war…if it hadn't been for Satine's staunch, idiotic pacifism…we wouldn't be wallowing in this fine political mess. Wouldn't be staring at another from across a crystalline throne room, the scars of the past cut all too clearly on our stunned faces.

Unfortunately, _she's_ the one to break the cloying silence, not me. "Master Kenobi. My shining Jedi Knight comes to the rescue once again."

All moisture decides to evaporate from my mouth. "And after all these years, you're even more beautiful than ever."

"Kind words," she retorts, that old frigidity returning to her gaze, "for a man who accuses me of treachery."

Kind words from lips I'd once touched to my own, tasted the sweetness dripping off them like honey. "I never personally accuse you of wrong doing, your Majesty; however, we have recordings. Recordings of a _Mandalorian_ saboteur attacking a _Republic_ base."

As I play the holo-recording for her, I can't help but compare us to our past selves. She's still slim, elegant, her brilliant eyes the only thing time has seemed to touch, but I feel as if I've lived through a thousand lifetimes. Although I've put on muscle, giving me a broad, imposing presence, my auburn hair's starting to gray in places, glinting silver when I happen to move my head. My eyes look dead, drained by the thief that is the Clone Wars, and my face is etched in few mores lines than hers. Only difference is, hers lend her regality, while mine just make me look haggard. Spent.

Once the holo's done playing, she pins me with an accusatory stare. "Every one of my people is as trustworthy as I am, Kenobi. Or had you forgot that there are a few of us in this galaxy who still hold promises as sacred?"

Apparently uncomfortable with our verbal sparring, an aide tries to cut in. "I know we sound _defensive_, but—"

Stone-faced, Satine ignores the poor dolt. "_Obviously_ the Senate is eager to encroach on Mandalorian affairs!"

Again, a _very_ poor choice of words. "My investigation was ordered by the _Jedi_ Council, Satine. They seem to believe that, sometimes, promises can outlast one party's dying faith."

For one terrifying moment, I believe she'll do what I want her to, will balk or rebel or march up and give me a good slap for my insolence. That's what I'd do, after all—but it's not Satine's way. Never has been, never will. Instead, her face softens from that stony mask, that dreadful façade of professionalism, and for a moment she's herself. She's Satine, Satine Kryze, the womans who undyingly loves Obi-Wan Kenobi.

And that _scares_ me. Because I can't distance myself from this now, can't pretend this was merely some past hallucination from the past. It's here, breathing, its heart drumming, and I can't escape it. All that I can really hope to do is to be able to gaze back at her with stoic reserve, pray that the brief flutter in my chest I feel at the sound of her voice is merely trick of the mind.

Because I, too, might be myself. Might be Obi-Wan Kenobi, that man who feels even though it's forbidden. That man who's made too many promises and broken them, who loves and is loved despite his railings against it.

I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man who undyingly loves Satine Kryze.

Present Day

I didn't expect this to be easy, to go swimmingly and resolve itself before any tears were shed. I didn't. But this is certainly harder to bear than I might've ever imagined, and that's saying quite a bit. Especially when visions of impaling Anakin Skywalker keep dancing before my eyes, mocking me with their brutal clarity, whispering and shouting and singing of the inevitable.

And I know _exactly_ why this is so difficult for me. I can see it, reflected there in her pleading eyes, puffy from recent tears. I read it in her body language, the stiffness of her spine as she lowers herself onto a nearby couch, a long withheld breath escaping soundlessly from her mouth; and I feel, almost taste it, as sit gingerly beside her. We're not touching, mind you—I can't be that close to another being, not now—but I can feel her pulse pounding in her left wrist, which is only hair-length away from my knee.

She, too, wishes she could look away…from everything.

Six Months Earlier

Striding down the feebly-lit detention level as if I'm _not_ an incognito Jedi, helmet pulled over my head and blaster pistol swinging at my hip, I search each and every holding cell for a sign of life. It's not that difficult, really. The artisans of Mandalore—of the _new_ Mandalore, the planet Satine forged out of the ashes of war—were obsessive when it came to glass work, and nearly everything in the planet's capital, Sundari, is crystalline, delicate. And absolutely, mercifully transparent.

So it makes my job all the easier, I guess. Sort of. It isn't difficult to locate the lone, female form in the cell to my left, her head bowed with her slim back facing me, but the ease of which I've found her doesn't make facing her any less daunting. Terrifying.

Inhaling so sharply that my helmet filter issues a sharp, static-y _whuf_, I turn toward the glass cell. I slap a palm to the door controls, watch it hiss open, then close my eyes. Open them again to see a blond head cant slightly, narrow shoulders going rigid.

"Here to do more of your master's bidding?" she bites, voice as frigid as the conditioned, recycled air circulating through the tiny room.

Parts of my mind are telling me, _commanding_ me to remain detached. Aloof. Just tell her I'm here to get her out of this joint, leave my helmet on, take her by the elbow and spirit her away to the _Twilight_—but that's impossible. Of course, she probably would have some trouble recognizing my voice—the Mando bucket loans a harsh, metallic quality to it—so that makes it _technically_ plausible. It's just…even now, after all these years and the silent, bitter regrets, I'd like her to still know me.

Because maybe, when it's all said and done, that simple fact could save my heart.

Pulling off the helmet, I pull a boyish smirk and quip, "I do my _own_ bidding."

Her head snaps up, and one of her old nicknames for me—Obi- escapes her lips in a gasp. An excited one, one that's bustling with joy and life and hope. One that turns my smirk to genuine smile, mirth flooding through my limbs as she races toward me.

Then suddenly, her arms are around me, her slender fingers brushing my nape. Her cheek presses to my shoulder, its surface soft and warm as sun-kissed silk, sending pulses of long-forgotten feeling shooting through my chest. Maybe it's simply a quick throb of longing, reawakened briefly by this embrace, this wonderful and terrifying world of touch. Or maybe it's not. Maybe it's something deeper. Something more.

Maybe it's because, until this moment, I wasn't able to feel. Or perhaps I had forgotten, lost touch with that side of myself and buried it under the shroud of time. It is possible, after all—with all my years of stoic Jedi discipline weighing down on my heart, I think my love for Satine has been so deeply repressed that I have begun to believe that my heart never sang for her. That it does now.

It's scary, letting all this emotion burst to the surface. It's horrifying, even. So it's no surprise that, at first, I'm very uncomfortable in Satine's embrace, my eyes going round and my body stony under the softness of her smaller one; I mean, this whole situation is beyond my control. Out of my reach. But as soon as my heart begins beating, dancing wildly—painfully—against my breastbone, I feel myself melting against her. Thawing, as if the sheer absence of her has kept me bound in an icy prison.

Oh, yes. Prison. Like the one we're standing in now, fit to one another like land and sky.

"I thought you were dead," she whispers, lifting her head to face me. Her lips quiver. "I thought I'd never—"

Aware of just how close her mouth is to mine, I take my gaze off her for a second, turn my attention instead to my mind's eye. I wasn't actually _there_ for my staged funeral, mind you; instead, I was perched on the edge of a cot, waiting for Mace and Yoda to stride through the frosted doors. But I should've known she'd been there. Should've realized that, up until now, she had no idea whether part of her heart itself was actually alive. Beating. Living.

And somehow, I know that she's a part me, too. A part of my heart, my world. My present, my past—but never my future.

"I know, Satine," I tell her, my finger tracing the edges of her beautiful mouth. "I know."

Present Day

"Padme," I urge quietly, leaning forward, "I must find him."

That's what I have to do, right? It's my duty. I'd just be following orders, swallowing down my own personal qualms to trudge through the unthinkable.

Right?

At least, that's what I'm telling myself. What I desperately wish to believe. What I wish to be, by whatever miracle, true. In fact, I think I'd swap truth with deception in a heartbeat at this moment, if only to shield myself from Padme's frightened gaze.

Her mouth goes slack. "You're going to kill him, aren't you? You want _me_ to help _you_ kill Anakin."

Averting my gaze, I let out a sigh. It's happening, right here, right now. Not only in the future or the past, but in the present.

Right now, I'm in the process of murdering Anakin Skywalker.

Six Months Earlier

Around me, time seems to slow, lose its very essence and unravel into nothingness. The soldiers grasping my arms appear to go still, absolutely so, and for an eternity they're with me in this moment. They're not feeling the same things, aren't fighting through a scorching agony in their chests. But they're _here_, watching. They can see as well as I do the sudden shock and realization passing through Satine's eyes, her mouth locked in silent scream as an ebony blade stabs through her back.

And then just as quickly the blade is retracting, dissolving into its sheath with a snap-hiss. But it's already too late; it's already done its job, wreaked all the havoc it possibly could. Withdrawing it is only a matter of ritual, a mere formality.

It's happening, right here, right now. Not only in the future or the past, but in the present. In _this_ moment…and for all of the eternity.

Right now, I feel as if I've murdered Satine Kryze.

Present Day

Currents of broiling wind buffeting my hair, I work my blade furiously before me. A parry, a slash, a block: they're being delivered, and I'm delivering them back, the air around me crackling with sound of super-heated ozone whizzing by. It's happening all so quickly, so lightning fast that my efforts are beginning to flag; I feel heat passing over my limbs, kissing them with the tenderness of a lover every time I fail to parry my opponent's blade, its deep azure light so heartbreakingly familiar. Comfortable.

And lethal.

So I can't possibly keep this up. Not for much longer, anyway; my breathing's ragged, my arms burn from my efforts, and—in some place—I'm scorched. Roasting in my skin, hair crisping at the ends as the sheer heat of the lava flow beneath rises to meet us. As tiny flecks of it rise upward, like dainty embers dancing about a blaze, to sting my face.

Hell. This is where I'm standing, face to face with a man I thought I once knew, thought I could trust. Thought I could love, like the brother I've never had—before I learned how mangled and cold and dead he really had become. He, like the torrid blister that is Mustafar, lives to kill, to steal, and destroy, to dominate and twist and utterly pervert.

And he belongs, I realize. He belongs _here_. Here, in hell.

In the place where he, one way of another, will meet his end, because I'm not the being I was before. I'm not Anakin Skywalker's mentor. I'm not his friend, his brother, or his confidante. I'm not even the man who once knew him, before all of this; leaping away from to land, cat-footed, on the blackened ground of nearby lava shore, I realize there's one identity for me here.

I'm the man who Darth Vader undyingly loathes.

Six Months Earlier

Breathless, I burst out of the guards' grip, rushing toward Satine. She's lying on the floor, gasping, a large, cauterize wound gaping just under her rib cage, but she's still alive. Her face is ashen, though, as I approach her, and I hear breath catch painfully as cradle her head in my lap.

"Satine," I whisper, wishing my mere use of her name could stop this, all of it, before she's gone.

Her eyes, distant and glazed, meet mine. She still sees me, right? She can still make out the moistness in my gaze, the sheer, blazing longing carving my features? Yes, I think she can. Otherwise, I don't think she would've been able to reach out, caress my beard with the velvet of her skin.

I still love her, don't I? Even after all these years of denying it, of pushing it aside. Of forgetting, or simply wanting to.

I still love Satine Kryze, even as she slips away to another world entirely.

Present Day

"Padme, hold on. _Please."_

But I doubt she hears me. She's lying on her back, her bottom half concealed by a curving metal sheet, her eyes squeezed tight against reality. Sweat sheens her face, gives her this wan, sickly color I'm all-too familiar with, and her back is arching grotesquely. A blood-curdling wail escapes from her lips; then she's back to panting faintly, the noise fractured by the gentle hum of a medical droid.

At the sight of the silent bundle the droid carefully hands me, my guts twists with long-buried anguish—along with some new pains, I suppose. On one hand, I'm drowning in an ocean of regret, my mind's eye flooded with the hopes of the past; on the other, I feel a sudden, bitter feeling latch onto me, and I can't shake it. It simply hangs there, gorging itself on my grief, filling my ears with a cacophony of taunts.

_It's happening again, Obi-Wan._

_ It's happening to you._

_ To _you,_ Obi-Wan Kenobi._

_ And it always will._

Yet as I gaze down at the child clutched to my chest, his soft blue gaze so achingly similar to Anakin's, the taunts die down. They don't disappear, mind you; if I listen close, if I tune out all else and focus on the sound, I can still hear a whisper. A faint one, barely audible, that's drowned out as a tiny hand reaches to grasp mine.

Epilogue

From the Journals of Luke Skywalker

It's a funny thing, death. It happens to everyone eventually, will catch up with us and finally bring us down; so why, exactly, does it always feel as though it were only happening to you? That this experience is unique, an isolated occurrence which will never happen again to anyone else. That because it's happened—and because it's taken away our soul or someone who was part of it—the universe itself must stop and grieve alongside us.

But it doesn't, you see, and that's what hurts the most about it. It goes on. It endures. And one day, perhaps in the next moment, we'll feel happy again.

I've had my fair-share of grief in my life—first the death of my mentor, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and now the death of father, Anakin Skywalker. I've had to watch them, both of them, die. Slip away , wraithlike, from this world and onto the next. And I've had to come to terms with not only those deaths, but with what they mean to me, what they will mean in the days to come…and whether or not I'm still the man I was before.

Anakin Skywalker—the man who was born a hero, who ultimately died a hero—had his own losses to deal with, I'm sure. And so did Obi-Wan. The difference is…well, my father wasn't much of a writer, and he didn't leave behind journals or diaries for me to see into his heart.

But Obi-Wan did.

If you're out there, Obi-Wan, if you're hovering above me somewhere, watching this with that little half-smile you always wear, I hope you don't think I'm belittling your privacy. Because I'm not. I mean, why else would you have left this diary here if you _didn't_ want it read? You must've known, must've had some feeling deep within that someone would read this; and you've must've known it would be me. Maybe.

Here's a little bit of something I found towards the end of your journal:

One day, I believe, I'll have to move on from this moment. I'll have to wake up, peel my eyes open, and notice that it's not dark anymore. That's the sun's not only risen, but that it's slanting through my window, washing over me in a warm tide. After all, the night can't last forever, or even contain the day; rather, the day contains the dark, allows it a brief reign over the horizon before it's once more dethroned.

I'll have to allow myself to feel, too, and this scares me more than the death itself. One day, I'll have to face up to what I am, to what I've done, and what's been done to me. Reality will have to right fantasy; light will inevitably pierce the dark. And someday, I'll remember that I loved and lost, that a piece of my heart beats for something—someone—who simply isn't there.

In the past, I remember defining myself as undyingly loving another, a being as completely outside myself as the land is separate from the sky. Which isn't entirely untrue, I suppose; I did love another person, an entity apart from myself. Yet I feel as if that thought was only scratching the surface of the matter, as if I'd forgotten completely how love itself works.

Because to love, you must know. To be loved…well, you must _be known_ as well. You must have another soul intertwined with your own, be fit to it like land and sky—which aren't really separate at all, I realize. They touch. They mingle. And they save one another from falling to the night.

But really, the land can't endure forever. It'll crumble. Erode. So the sky—the sky will have to battle the darkness by itself, will struggle, all alone, to return the sun to the black horizon. And it'll be one heck of a fight, too. But when the sun finally does return to its spot, when it banishes night and hides even the stars from view, it'll somehow shine brighter than it ever did.

Someday, it'll learn to breathe on its own.

The End

Job 19:25-27: "I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end He will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God; I myself will see Him with my own eyes—I, and not another. How my heart yearns within me!


End file.
